“Suh-Suh-Sunday,” he stutters, “gotta guh-guh-go fix that ceiling panel at the school. George’s gonna let me in. I bought some stuff at the hardware store to do it. I’ll puh-puh-pay you back.”
“Good.” Reuben turns back to the oil pump he is rebuilding. “You want New Year’s Eve off?”
“Rather work.”
Reuben pauses. “There’ll be many New Year’s Eves in your life you may have to work, Sammy.”
Sam shrugs and turns away.
At six on Sunday morning, with the pickup game scheduled for nine at the meetinghouse, Sam parks his truck in the Playground parking lot. Counting on the scant traffic of the early hour, the poor light of winter dawn and the isolated location to protect him from prying eyes, he shimmies a pole to tap the power line that feeds the new playground lights. As he works, he considers how he could possibly explain what he’s doing to the cops: his best bet would be to mew piteously and hope they will think a very large mean dog chased him up the pole. But shortly he’s down without incident. Up a tree overhanging the Brook to hook the cable there and now it’s overhead, just another piece of utility line invisible among all the others crosshatching the sky. Then onto the Mill, using trees and brush to camouflage the line.
The padlock’s easy: squeeze one hard and they almost always pop right open. From inside, he draws the cable through a hole drilled in the frame of the window in the watchman’s cubby and to the fusebox on the wall. It looks like something Fred and Barney put together out of dinosaur vertebrae and jungle vines. Boom boom boom: the Mill’s electrified again. He does a triumphant little Irish jig. Has visions of juicing the power train. Maybe he can use the Mill as his Science Fair project in physics, spring semester: The Greenspark Mill Reanimated—he likes the sound of it.
There is still an ancient lightbulb dangling from the ceiling and the cubby actually has a couple of outlets. Into one he plugs the small space heater salvaged from the farmhouse. No reason to work in utter misery and he can leave it here for her. She’s been here—left candle stubs on the floor. No cigarette butts, though. No roaches or empties but then returnables are worth a nickel or a dime and roaches not eaten are saved for another go.
From the other outlet he runs extension cord to the cavern of the main floor and in darkness climbs the rope and clips a floodlight to the beshitted beam. By this light he installs permanent floods on pulleys to make the bulbs easy to change. Once he has light, the last bit is easy. Bring in the ladder and the rest of the gear from the truck, mark the wall, drill the holes in the brick. Set the backboard and hoop.
He squares to it, lays up a shot, watches his new ball shiver through the nylon. Even with the new net, the rusty hoop looks shabby. He ought to have derusted and painted it. With the floods spilling ruthless light everywhere, every grim defect of this place is revealed so it looks as bad as it smells. What’s he done? You can’t make hell cozy or a whorehouse innocent. Let down, Sam picks up his ball, gathers his tools and heads for home.
A very thin turnout at the meeting house increases his sense of discouragement. He hoped more of the guys would care enough to put in the extra time to make up for taking Christmas Eve and Christmas off, but the partying started Friday night and continued on Saturday and the guys who do turn up are showing it. Sam and Rick linger behind to do the floor—winter weather brings in a lot of grit.
“Cheer up,” Rick urges, in reaction to Sam’s moroseness. “It’s not all bad. I’m getting laid.”
“Right,” Sam agrees. “I can sleep without my chastity belt now.”
Rick grins. “I got an idea. Why don’t you get a date?”
Sam gives the broom a push. “Rather not. I’m working.”
“What else is new?”
Knowing how Rick is going to react, he almost doesn’t say anything. “I’m thinking about quitting.”
Rick thumps a mop to the floor. “Jerking off? Too late. You’re already brain-damaged.”
Sam laughs. “Basketball.”
Rick stares at him. “You’re shitting me.”
Sam shrugs. “It’s just a game. I’m not going anywhere with it. It’s over in a couple months anyway. You guys can take the state without me.”
“I do not fucking believe you, man. What do you want to quit for? Don’t tell me you got something better to do?”
“If I had the hours to put in, Dad could take on a lot more work.”
“Your dad wants you to quit?”
“No! Of course not.”
Rick shoves his mop into Sam’s hands. “Here, try this on for size. It’s another couple months and then you got the rest of your life to be a blue-collar thud.”
“Nevermind. I was just thinking about it. I got a bike to support, you know.”
“You can’t even ride your goddamn bike for another three months.” Rick flings his mop aside and picks up a loose basketball. He backs to center court. “You’re a sick mother, Samurai.” He pivots. “You don’t need to quit basketball. You need to get your head out of your ass and wake the fuck up.” He whangs the ball into the backboard.
“It’s not that easy—” Sam says, shaking his head.
“Yes it is,” Rick interrupts. “Yes it is.” He points a finger accusingly at Sam. “You’re chickenshit.”
And stalks out, leaving Sam to finish the floor.
Steamed with a pearly glow, the windows at the Corner beckon warmly. From the sidewalk the Mutant spots J.C. in his favorite booth. Once inside, she leans over the back of his booth and tickles his earrings and he leans back and smiles at her.
“Stranger,” she says.
“Stranger and stranger,” he responds. “How ya doin’?”
Climbing over the back, she drops down next to him. He slips an arm around her
